Can You Feel My Fever Dreams
by LaedieDuske
Summary: Dean gets sick, Sam does his best. Spawned by a Hoodie Time prompt. Tummy rubs are happiness.


**Title**: Can You Feel My Fever Dreams  
**Author**: Laedie Duske  
**Pairing**: None  
**Word Count**: 674  
**Rating**: 13+  
**Warnings**: Illness, swearing

**Spoilers**: None  
**Disclaimer**: I own neither the boys, nor Supernatural. I own this story, though, so no copying, distributing, etc.  
**A/N**: _Hoodie_Time prompt: ____I don't care how plotless it is, but all I want is Dean with a stomachache that leads to Sam rubbing his belly. I DON"T CARE HOW UN-CANON IT IS, EITHER. Just if you write it I will love you forever. _

_**v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v-v**_

He's crumpled on the bathroom floor, curled around the base of the toilet. His throat is on fire, pain lances through his stomach with stunning regularity like some metronome from hell. He is so damn cold his teeth are chattering so hard they hurt. He thinks desperately of the warmth of the bed, but he's too weak to even sit up.

Sam left who knows how long ago. He had brushed his palm over Dean's forehead, cursed and told Dean, "Hang on, man. We haven't stocked up for awhile, I've got to go find a pharmacy. I'll bring you back some juice and some soup, too, you've got to at least drink something if nothing else. I brought the trash can over for you, just please don't get up before I get back, okay?"

Dean had swallowed thickly at the mention of food, but managed to breathe "_'kay"_ and then Sam was out the door.

Except Dean had known if he had thrown up in the trash can and had to lie on the bed smelling it, it would just make everything worse. He was afraid he'd start throwing up and not stop until he'd managed to vomit up his toenails. When his stomach clenched and flipped, sliding bile up the back of his throat in a hot wash, he'd stumble-fallen-crawled to the bathroom.

So there he stayed, crumpled in a feeble heap, knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped tight around his aching gut.

He felt himself flinch with every stab of pain, which is probably why Sam did not actually yell at him when he got back and found Dean blue-lipped and moist-eyed on the gritty tile.

In fact, he looked more than a little panicked by the sight.

"Jesus Dean." There was no anger, no accusation to the words, just fear and need. Fear of how far downhill Dean had slid in such a short time, and overwhelming need to make him better somehow.

Sam ducked out into the main room and grabbed the blanket off the bed, quickly wrapping it around Dean's shuddering form. He carefully slid his brother up onto his lap as far as he could, trying not to jostle his delicate hold on whatever might have been left in his stomach but wanting _-needing-_ to get as much of the feverish skin off the freezing floor as he possibly could.

Throughout, Dean stayed tightly coiled around the agony in his stomach.

"S'my...hur's..." barely a squeak of sound ground out past clenched teeth and cramped stomach muscles.

Sam's heart broke at the pain in his brother's voice, shattered completely apart when he realized his tough-as-nails brother was actually trembling with pain.

"Dean?"

"_NGH!_" Dean writhed in his lap as another spasm stabbed through him.

Enough was enough.

Sam reached inside the blanket and slid his hand up under his brother's sweat-dampened t-shirt, hissing at the heat radiating off his brother's stomach. Dean tried to flinch away.

"Relax Dean, this isn't really happening, it's just a fever-dream." Dean cracked one eye and rolled it up towards his brother's face, the corner of his mouth twitching up briefly as Sam started to soothe careful circles on the heated flesh.

Every other pass around, he would carefully knead the muscles in an ever-widening spiral out from Dean's bellybutton. When he reached the outer edge of the quivering, flinching muscles he started circling back in towards the bellybutton again. On and on, circle around, knead the same path trying to unknot the abused tissue, palm spread sliding over a wider circle, followed by gentle fingertip pressure, until finally Dean's breath evened out some and his body finally began to unclench.

He loses track of time, of everything except the too-warm body lying, trusting, in his lap. If it means Dean finally feels a little better and manages to get some rest, Sam would keep at it until he pulls back a worn stump where his hand used to be.

The gods know Dean has made enough sacrifices for him.


End file.
